Little George has been born and Big George has conjured up economic growth of
0.6 per cent. What better way to start a holiday?

SO CRUSHING had been England’s victory in the last Ashes Test – inspired, Dave was far too modest to suggest, by his presence at the ground – that a debate had broken out in No 10 as to whether it would be better to have a stronger Australian team, so as to make it a contest.

He’d put this question to his own pet Australian, when Lynton had popped by to offer some strategic advice, and make sure Dave hadn’t been talking to any anti-smoking activists while his back was turned. The advice from the Steve Waugh of politics had been typically forthright. “When you’ve got ’em on the floor, kick ’em in the nadgers,” he’d said. “And while they’re moaning, kick ’em again.”

As ever, Lynton had it exactly right. As Dave packed his bags for the hols, Labour were reeling from an all-fronts assault over the unions and the NHS; the economy was perking up (as George had so wittily put it, 0.6 per cent here and 0.6 per cent there, and pretty soon you were talking real growth); and the nation was basking in sunshine and sporting triumph. And to cap it all, there was a delightful little royal baby! Just a shame they hadn’t followed his advice and given it a rather more leaderly name than George, but then “King David” did have connotations that were best avoided…

In fact, Dave was so content that he’d barely minded having to slum it with the plebs on EasyJet, en route to the Algarve. Even as he was jostled by his fellow travellers, stray luggage banging painfully into his shins, he’d been musing on how Theresa and William would cope as joint fort-holders, with him and Nick away. He gave it three days before she tried summoning a Cobra meeting, just to give herself something to do.

He’d even been happy to go along with Craig’s request that they stage a holiday photo shoot at a fish market, despite the inevitable jokes about slimy creatures lacking backbone, but enough about the Lib Dems.

The best thing about being on the political up, Dave reflected, as he relaxed in his deckchair, was seeing all those who’d stuck the boot in while he was suffering having to eat their words. All of a sudden, the nattering nabobs of negativism had gone very quiet indeed. Perhaps because Lynton knew where they lived.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” said Sam, sauntering out to join him on the veranda.

“Immensely,” said Dave. “In fact, when we get round to the EU renegotiations, I might see whether we can keep this place for ourselves. Offer to trade it for some bit of Britain surplus to requirements.”

“I’m not sure the Queen would be keen on you giving away her new great-grandchild’s inheritance,” said Sam. “No matter how many Labour voters it had. Plus, you can’t get too comfortable. What with this and the trip to Ibiza, we’re already looking suspiciously Europhile for some of our backbenchers. You’re meant to be the Prime Minister of Britain, not the Ambassador to Sangria.”

“Darling, you know I put Britain first for 48 weeks of the year,” said Dave. “But that said, if it came to a choice between our national sovereignty and access to decent tapas, it’d be a pretty close call…”